One of the pieces I submitted was a short story called My Father as Ferryman, which was set in a goth club. Shut up. The story hinged on the quasi- (arguably ersatz, definitely pretentious) courtly dynamic of the place. I’m talking about the grand old days when there was future to burn, clubs were the sanest part of the week, every joint had a card-carrying, frock coated, 100% genyooine vampire who could never get laid and LARPing was as popular as naming yourself after ailments. If you were around at the time and never got fanged, cursed or knew someone named ‘Baron Necrosis von Rainfuneral’ (“Have you met myne bryde, Anemia?”) you weren’t doing it right. I saw a kid in a cape the other day and I wanted to hug him.

Of all the critiques I ever received from Critters the one I remember concerns this story. It was from a middle-aged, middle-class American lady and it read, more or less: “The setting stretches plausibility as this place couldn’t possibly exist.”

Also, a little on Marc Maron, and two lines on something I can't talk about yet. Possibly ever, but hopefully just yet.